Blur
by Sweet Valentine
Summary: There were welts there, scars from where he had pulled at those shackles, so desperately for freedom he recalled that at first, he had pulled so hard he bled. But that was long ago...Basch fon Ronsenburg was now a free man. [eventual BRAN]


**AN: This is just a little idea I had. Different from my normal stories (at least in subject matter), but I think I am really going to like this. I hope you do too.**

**There will be spoilers for the entire game. And no, I don't own FF12. This is also dedicated, and partially inspired by, sapereaude13, who also beta'd this for me! Remember: BRAN! Because Bunnies Love Potholders!**

vague /vygveyg: 1. not clearly or explicitly stated or expressed; 2. indefinite or indistinct in character or nature, such as ideas or feelings; SYN: indistinct, hazy, formless, blurred

impression im-**presh**-_uh_n: 1. a strong effect produced on the intellect, feelings, conscience, etc.; 2. the first and immediate effect of an experience or perception upon the mind; sensation.

_**Chapter One – Vague Impression**_

It all was a blur. His mind was desperate, and he could not even be sure that what was occurring in this instant was _tangible_ and _real._ But when the stunning Viera swung her powerful leg and slammed down on the lever, he felt the jolt, that surge running through his body, and he knew _this was happening_. His stomach floated up to his heart, his breath hitched, his head was spinning as his cage, his prison (_home_) sped down the shaft, with the ragtag group of heroes just above. He braced himself for the impact, and with a quake the metal barrier slammed down into the ground, uprooting the stone paving of the tunnel's floor. His knees buckled, and he gasped in pain as the restraints which bound him clattered and pulled wildly from the impact. There was dust everywhere. His eyes stung, and he quickly shut them tight, feeling hot moisture bubbling from underneath his lids. He breathed deeply, only to choke on the musty, stale air. He opened his eyes again. The world was spinning, madly, in a jumble of lights and darks, dust swirling around, and he felt as though he would be sick. He grasped the bars of his cage, now bent and twisted from the collision, and he steadied himself. When he had reclaimed his senses, he took the time to warily examine the surroundings.

The door of the cage had flown off, from the force of the impact, he presumed. Debris was strewn everywhere; the wreckage spanned a good length of the tunnel, from what he could see. He was still chained, however. He scanned the confines, and saw the bolts that held his shackles had loosened considerably. Securing one foot on the base of the cage, he lifted his other to brace against the bar wall, and pulled downward. The bolt popped free from its position, and the chains broke free. Still feeling the weight of the rusted iron sharp against his wrists, he reached down for a jagged piece of rubble; he lifted the rock and took it down to his wrist. After a few hits, the cuffs fell from their place with a clatter. Slowly, deliberately, he examined the place where they previously laid. The skin was rough and calloused, with bruising. Gingerly, he ran his fingers across the skin. There were welts there, scars from where he had pulled at those shackles, so desperately for freedom; he recalled that at first, he had pulled so hard he bled. But that was long ago.

Basch fon Ronsenburg was now a free man.

It was surreal. He stared at his wrists, now liberated from chains. _Free._

There was a commotion above him, and he lurched as the rubble gave a distinct shift.

"Uggnh…" he heard, and looked up, but was met only by the brassy top of the cage. Cautiously, he maneuvered his way out of his battered prison, and for the first time remembered _he was not alone_. Perched precariously on top of the wreckage was the flaxen haired boy – the very same who lashed out at Basch just mere minutes ago. The boy lay limp, sprawled out in what Basch supposed was a highly uncomfortable position. The boy stirred, eyes blinking and unfocused, and with a heavy groan attempted to raise himself up. He faltered.

The knight hurried over to lend him aid, but the second his hand closed on the younger boy's shoulder, the boy jerked fiercely, as though the older knight's touch was of fire. Lunging away from him, the boy awkwardly somersaulted to the ground, landing with a thud. Basch spun around and once again advanced to confirm the younger man's health, but his target skittered farther back. Though his mouth was agape, no words came out; but Basch saw in the younger man's eyes all that he was attempting to say: _stay away_.

A rustling of noise behind him alerted Basch that the boy's company had made it down the shaft as well. He turned and came face to face with a roguish looking man. Unlike the boy, this man was older, and certainly more composed, casually adjusting his shirt cuffs and brushing the dust from his trousers almost nonchalantly. This man… he had called him "king-slayer".

The memory made Basch wince. Though, he could not help marvel at the strangeness of it all. It was a matter of minutes ago he was bound in a cage, not even like a bird, but a thing despised.

"_Less than a shadow. Less than a man."_

It stung. It caused him almost physical pain. Not so much the words; rather, the fact that the speaker… the _speaker_…

It was a triple blow really. First, he was insulted by the true traitor, only to learn seconds later of Amalia's capture, and then finally, to be introduced to this…_interesting_ group. Upon first sight, Basch's heart soared at the prospect of them being there specifically to save him, but thoughts of liberation quickly dissipated when the boy seized upon on his cage and yelled obscenities at him.

"You alright there, Fran?"

The man's voice shook Basch from his thoughts. He glanced up and saw to whom the speaker was addressing. A…Viera. Yes, the one who kicked the lever. _Who freed me_.

She nodded affirmatively to answer the rogue's query, and then turned her attention to the fallen knight. He noticed that even in the darkness, her eyes gleamed brightly. He thought of rubies. They were red, deep and rich. Her silver hair billowed behind her, slightly tousled, from the lengthy fall, he surmised. She clasped her bow at her side, and he did not doubt for a second she was well qualified for its use. She emanated an air of calculated skill, lethal no doubt, and shrewdness. She was… beautiful, he was forced to admit. It had been so long since he had even seen the face of a woman. For all his stoicism, his honor, his patience, Basch fon Ronsenburg was still a man. And this…Fran, was it? ...was a quite attractive woman. She held her gaze on his face, and he felt as if her eyes were piercing his very soul, his being. He in turn met her ruby eyes, and his face suddenly felt flushed and hot. His head felt light again, and the area began to haze. He almost felt as though he were spinning. Giddy and light.

"Ahhhh!"

His trance was broken as he found himself being forced against the wall, hands clawing at him. The boy. His fist reared back, and Basch braced himself for the inevitable collision. He was spared just in time, as the rogue quickly took hold of the younger boy's arm, pulling him off Basch, who was visibly shaken and confounded by the boy's actions. Once his grip was secure, the brown-haired man threw the boy back, launching him into the wall.

"Eaahh!"

"Spare us your quiddities," the man remarked in a smooth, refined accent, clearly irritated with the boy's rash display.

"Yeah, but – but he's a-"

"A traitor. I know, I know. Stay here and fight, if you want." He turned to Basch, and regarded him for a moment. "If you can walk, let's go."

"You're taking him with us?!" The boy asked incredulously. The older man seemed to pay him little regard.

"We could use another sword arm," he replied, flippantly. The man turned his attention to Basch.

"And you have it," Basch was quick to respond, almost overeager at the prospect of actually find a way out of the treachery of Nalbina. He heard the younger boy scoff angrily behind him, but Basch paid him no heed, instead following behind the Viera, who had begun leading the party down the dark tunnel.

Basch still could not fully comprehend the absurdity of it all. He had spent the last few years of his life bound and chained in a rotting, torrid and foul underground dungeon, with sparse rations and very little kindly company. The simple action of walking was almost a new sensation. How long had it been? The muscles of his legs had grown so feeble. He cringed as he felt the caps of his knees buckling and popping, trying to become accustomed to the action of movement again. He believed himself to be a man spent; whose creaking was customary of old age. And yet, Basch fon Ronsenburg was only a man of 35 (or was it 36? He had not known exactly how much time had passed… he surmised that when shrouded in darkness, time seemed to move slower). In fact, mere minutes into their march, his body began to ache. He stoically said nothing, recalling his training for the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca. He would not complain, though his joints felt afire. He breathed in deeply, willing himself to not grimace at the twinge running down his meager back. Basch knew this trek would be difficult, and had no doubt fiends would cross their path. He prayed his body had not forgotten his technique, though.

They proceeded in silence, and it was after a distance Basch realized he knew only the Viera's name. He glanced to his left, sideways at her. She reservedly ambled on, poised and seemingly at calm with his presence. He looked further beyond her to the rogue, who seemed to care not that Basch even existed, and instead strolled along casually and indifferently. After him came the young boy, who was practically stewing in his anger. Basch was impressed that the boy took care to not attack him again. Treading carefully, Basch decided to break the quiet.

"I do not believe we have been formally acquainted."

It was addressed to the three others generally, but the smartly-dressed rogue quipped in reply, "Ah, but good sir, we know _you._" Basch frowned slightly at the man's impertinence.

"_His_ name is Balthier," the Viera replied to Basch, throwing a pointed look at the so-called Balthier, whose expression seemed to have soured now that she had spoiled his fun. "That boy, he is a new companion-"

"Nuisance-"

"-of ours," she continued, ignoring Balthier's jab and the boy's subsequent huff of disapproval. "He is Vaan."

Basch started. _Vaan_. _Could he be…_It was in that instant, he sympathized with the boy, understanding why exactly he decided to lash out at the formal general. Not that he could blame him either. _Reks_.

"I am Fran." She finished simply, continuing for pretense's sake – he had already known her name. He turned his attention back to the Viera. She regarded him gently, not warily as her companions, and her eyes danced with genuine interest as she observed him.

"Yes. Thank you, Fran."

They continued in silence.

**Concrit is greatly appreciated! I'll **_**start**_** chapter two as soon as possible!**


End file.
